UnderCovers
by Lindenharp
Summary: When James goes undercover with Robbie to investigate a drug trafficker, he gets more than he bargained for. James Hathaway/Robbie Lewis. Undercover as gay. Pre-slash. Some not-very-explicit sexual contact. Warnings for coarse language and homophobic attitudes.


All in all, James would rather be facing a corpse in a muddy ditch. It's not that he wishes for some unfortunate person to be dead, but he'd be on more familiar ground in that ditch than here in a noisy Italian restaurant, sitting between his governor and a suspected drug trafficker.

Pete Sowerby looks more like a successful businessman than a dangerous criminal. Then again, he's both, if the Drug Trafficking Special Taskforce are correct. Sowerby, a mid-level cocaine dealer in Birmingham, moved to Newcastle eight years ago, where he's since become head of one of the largest drug smuggling operations in northern England. Now, sources report that he's looking to expand his network in a southerly direction.

James and his governor wouldn't normally be involved with this case, but Lewis can play the role that DTST need: Bob Loomis, a not always law-abiding Geordie owner of a small, struggling transport company in Oxford. James (aka Jim Hatton) is his accountant. They're playing exaggerated versions of their own selves: Lewis's accent is thicker than James has ever heard it; his own voice has become fussy and precise. Not _quite_ cut-glass—just posh enough to sound like a man desperately clinging to an illusion of respectability.

Sowerby and Lewis are reminiscing about Newcastle. James decides that his role is to look bored but tolerant. It requires no acting on his part, and gives him an excuse to stare at Robbie. _Robbie._ He's got used to calling his governor by his first name when they're off-duty, and though they're working now, the man sitting next to him looks nothing like DI Lewis. He's wearing black cords and a black leather jacket. The pale blue silk shirt that matches Robbie's eyes has the top two buttons undone, the better to show off the braided gold chain around his neck.

James is wearing a suit provided by the DTST. It's off the rack from M&amp;S, and the cuffs are just worn enough to notice if one looks closely._ "A shiny suit!" _Lewis said when he first saw it, flashing a grin that told James there was a story behind his reaction. James thinks he'll ask about it when this assignment is over.

If all goes well, the next step will be for them to be invited back to Sowerby's house for a more private getting-to-know-you session. Of the undercover officers who've managed to meet with Sowerby, only two have made it to that secondary interview stage, and neither of them received an invitation to join his well-paid network of drug couriers.

_"Whatever you hear or can observe will be of use," the DTST liaison officer told them. "The_ essential_ thing is that you mustn't make Sowerby suspect that he's the target of an active investigation. You can't give him any reason to think you're coppers."_

Dinner comes to an end. They politely decline Sowerby's suggestion of tiramisu for dessert. James is smiling politely and Lewis is starting to offer thanks for the dinner when Sowerby says abruptly, "Why don't you two come back to mine for drinks, eh?"

Lewis is careful not to seem too eager. "I reckon we could do that." He glances at James. "That all right with you, Jim?"

"Of course, Mr Loomis," James replies, careful to use Lewis's undercover name.

Outside the noise and the bustle of the restaurant, it's a mild May evening. Sowerby leads them to the far end of the car park. James tenses slightly until he sees the black car parked by itself. If _he_ had a brand-new 7-series BMW, he'd park it a few miles from the nearest car. He gets into the front passenger seat, next to the taciturn, unsmiling driver. Sowerby joins Lewis in the back.

Within minutes, they're out of the suburbs, driving along dark, unnumbered roads. James tries to keep track of distances and turns, but it's a cloudy, moonless night, and the BMW's windows are tinted, so he isn't even sure of the compass direction. Behind him the murmur of conversation slows, falters, then stops entirely. The loudest sound is the purr of the engine. It's like a surreal segment of Top Gear: four silent people in an expensive German car.

When they finally turn into a long, gravelled driveway, James is surprised to see what looks like a budget holiday cottage: grey with white shutters, and hanging baskets of geraniums on either side of the door. It does not look like a building that should have a new BMW parked in front of it.

"I've let it for the month. It's peaceful," Sowerby says, as if he's overhead James's thoughts. "I get a lot of work done here. And there aren't any neighbours to interrupt us." The driver hops out of the car and opens the rear right door for his employer. James does the same for his governor.

He's feeling quietly pleased that they've arrived, that they've passed an obstacle that has blocked far more experienced undercover teams. And then Lewis stumbles over something too small to see, and topples onto the concrete slab that serves the cottage as a patio.

"Robbie!" James drops to his knees beside Lewis. "Are you all right?"

Lewis rolls over onto his back. With a slight wince, he pushes himself into a sitting position. "Don't fuss. I'm fine."

"Who are you?" Sowerby's voice is quiet as a dog's warning growl. When James looks up, he half-expects to see a gun, but the glare pointed at them seems nearly as lethal. _No neighbours to interrupt_, he remembers. They could be dead and buried before the TST think to search for them.

"We're the same people we were an hour ago. Bob Loomis and Jim Hatton," Lewis snaps. He stands up, waving away James's offered arm.

"Never seen an accountant that worried about his boss before," Sowerby says. "And he called you Robbie, not Bob. So I've got to ask myself, who are these blokes, and what are they hiding?"

James is estimating the odds. It's two against two, unless there are more of Sowerby's men inside the cottage. His own hand-to-hand training is rusty, and Lewis's is probably worse.

"I reckon you've found us out," Lewis says calmly. He raises a silencing hand in James's direction. "Don't be a fool, man—we've got to tell the truth."

_The truth?_ Does Lewis think that Sowerby will hesitate to kill them if he learns that they're coppers?

"And the truth is?"

"Jim here isn't just me accountant. He's me partner—in every sense of the word." Lewis suddenly grasps James's left hand and holds it firmly. "Robbie is a pet name, like."

"That's your secret? You're a couple of fairies?"

Lewis fixes him with a steely glare. "I don't much like that word."

The other man stares back at him, his gaze cold and appraising. Finally he shrugs. "I don't care where you stick it, so long as you can keep it in your trousers when you're on the job."

James hears himself saying, "We can if you can."

Sowerby laughs. "Look who's got a pair of big brass ones, eh?" He looks back at Lewis. "Got to say I'm relieved. I was wondering if you two were the filth."

An emphatic glob of spit strikes the concrete. "You thought we were the bizzies? Given a choice, I'd rather be called a fairy," Lewis says contemptuously.

"A man in my position can't be too careful," Sowerby replies. He heads towards the front steps of the cottage, gesturing for them to follow.

The inside of the cottage is plain and utilitarian, except where the owner has tried to provide some personal touches. There are orange and gold needlepoint cushions on the sofa that seem to be older than James. Display shelves on the two longest walls of the lounge are crowded with royal commemorative plates, mugs, and other tat. Sowerby waves at them to sit on the sofa, while he takes the wicker armchair just opposite. "Fancy a bit of Charlie?"

James stills. This could be a test, and he's not sure what the correct answer is. _'First thing is to stay in character,'_ he remembers their DTST handler saying. He shakes his head at Sowerby. "No thanks. I tried some when I was at university. Fun while it lasted, but the high wasn't worth the crash. The guy who gave it to me was sent down at the end of Michaelmas term because it made him stupid. I didn't care to take that chance."

Sowerby cocks his head. "But you don't object to the business?"

"If I were a publican, and some Neanderthal got inebriated on cheap gin, and started practicing rugby tackles on his girlfriend, I wouldn't blame myself—or the gin."

"So... you're a university man." Sowerby is studying him.

Robbie is looking at him with a doting smile. "Jim went to Cambridge. Got a scholarship and all, on account of his being so clever."

"What did you study?" Sowerby asks.

"Maths."

"What, how many beans make five?"

"Hardly," He infuses his words with the youthful arrogance of Wolfgang Christ, Head Boy. "Riemann surfaces, linear analysis, Fourier transforms, fluid dynamics..." He's confident that Sowerby won't ask for details—which is a very good thing, as James couldn't answer if his life depended on it.

"Speaking of fluid," Robbie interjects, "I reckon I'd like to test the dynamics of that." He gestures at the kitchen table. In the centre of the apple-green plastic tablecloth is a clear glass bottle in the shape of a human skull.

Sowerby grins. "Canadian vodka. Premium stuff. You've got good taste." He looks inquiringly at James, who replies with a nod. At a glance from his boss, the driver takes three small tumblers from a cupboard and sets them on the table. No drinking on duty for him, apparently. Sowerby pours a shot of vodka into each glass.

"And now you're wondering how I ended up keeping the books for a transport company," James mutters to the floor.

"None of my business." Sowerby hands the first glass to Lewis.

James continues, as if Sowerby hadn't said a word, "Once you get out into the real world, no one cares if you took a First in the world's most distinguished maths course. It's all about who you know and if your father smells of Aramis or horse manure." He takes the offered glass and stares into it.

Sowerby raises his own glass. "Fuck the nobs."

"Fuck the nobs," James repeats, and downs the shot in one determined gulp. Robbie echoes him a second later.

Sowerby turns to Robbie. "Sorry, I didn't offer you a hit."

"Ta, but it doesn't agree with me," Lewis says, with the casual regret of a dowager declining a Pimms cup. "Tried it once, an' I got the twitches, then sicked up me breakfast all over me mate Tommy's car. Nearly took me head off, Tommy did. That car was his pride and joy. A red Cortina Mark III."

They drink and chat; chat and drink. After the first shot, James sips the vodka with the appreciation it deserves. He's grateful to be drinking it after dinner. A stomach full of linguine carbonara and garlic bread is a good defence against hard liquor drunk neat. Robbie is pacing himself, too, though he makes a good show of being just a little too merry. He tells a tale of a youthful shoplifting expedition, and a skin-of-his-teeth escape from a policeman, using a clever distraction and a stolen bicycle.

As Sowerby lets out a belly-shaking laugh, James puts on the tolerant smile of a man who has heard his partner's favourite story too many times. Actually, James realises that he _has_ heard that story before, only Robbie was the PC in question, and he foiled the young thief's escape and brought him into the nick in cuffs.

Sowerby has his own tales to tell. James isn't quite sure if any of them are the man's own criminal exploits. He begins each one with, "I once knew a bloke..." They're probably a mixture of lies and exaggerations, but James commits them to memory as carefully as if he is revising for an exam. Even a tiny grain of truth may be useful.

It's past midnight when Robbie tries to smother a yawn. Sowerby, still playing the genial host, insists that they spend the night. He escorts them to a bedroom. "I was gonna put Jim on the sofa, before I knew... This is snug, but you lovebirds shouldn't mind, yeah?"

Robbie assures him that they'll be comfortable. Once the door closes behind them, James looks dubiously at the double bed. "It's—"

"Not the Ritz," Robbie interjects, "but we've slept in worse, haven't we, Jimmy?" With a frown and a gesture, he warns James that the room may be bugged.

James nods his understanding. "Remember that B&amp;B in Leeds?" he asks, careful to slur his words just a little. "It stank of Dettol, and there was no heat. Thought I was going to freeze to death."

"Just fresh country air out here," Robbie says cheerfully, "and if you feel cold, I'll warm you up."

It's a bittersweet pleasure to hear those words: wishing they were true; knowing that they're only playacting to fool their host. "Let's go to bed. I'm knackered."

Robbie is already getting undressed. He hangs his jacket and shirt on the pegs on the back of the door, and drapes his trousers over the white wicker chair in the corner. James does the same, stripping down to his briefs. He gestures for Robbie to get into bed first; if they are being listened to, it wouldn't do for him to ask his supposed lover what side he prefers. Robbie points to the right. As James sets his fake Rolex on the nightstand, he notices that Robbie still has the braided gold chain around his neck. Afraid of losing it, perhaps, or else he's forgotten that he was wearing it.

James has had a lot of fantasies in which Robbie is wearing only briefs (and one memorable one featuring tight swimming shorts on a deserted tropical beach), but he's never thought to include any jewellery. That is going to change. He gets into bed carefully, meaning to leave as much room as possible between himself and Robbie. The bed is short, so he has to draw up his knees to keep his feet from dangling over the end.

Robbie, watching his cautious manoeuvres, smirks, then rolls onto his right side. With their bodies curving in the same direction, James is able to inch further away from the edge of the bed and still not intrude on Robbie. His body is comfortable enough, but his mind is whirling. Should he say something? Won't their listeners expect to hear _something_? "Good night, Robbie."

"G'night, pet," Robbie murmurs as he clicks the light off.

* * *

It's a wonderful dream. James is spooned around Robbie's back, warm flesh pressed against warm flesh. He inhales the familiar scent of his lover and presses his lips against the nape of Robbie's neck. He'd like to pepper kisses all the way down Robbie's back, but he's much too comfortable where he is. His cock is eager to join in the fun. Handicapped as it is by two layers of fabric, it can only press suggestively against Robbie's arse. Desire builds: maddening, frustrating, intoxicating. He presses his mouth against Robbie's shoulder, and hums a wordless message of longing down into the skin, the muscles, the very bones...

"Wha—?" Robbie mumbles.

At that moment, James passes from dream to nightmare as he wakes up. It's pitch dark (the white digits of the LED clock tell him that it's 3:22 AM), but his other senses inform him that he really is wrapped around his governor, touching him in various intimate and inappropriate ways. _Christ!_ If he can just back away while Robbie is still mostly asleep...

No such luck. He can feel Robbie awaken, feel the muscles of his back tense as he becomes aware of what's happening. "I'm sorry," James hisses as softly as he can. He tries to scuttle backwards, only Robbie grabs hold of James's left wrist and won't let go. James freezes. _What's happening?_

Robbie's voice is a raspy ghost of a whisper. "Not here. Not now." The fingers curled around James's wrist guide his hand further down and across, until the flat of his palm is touching something warm and strong beneath a layer of taut cotton. It's Robbie's cock, gloriously hard, and as insistent for attention as his own. "Later."

He's dreaming again. Must be, because this is too fantastic to be real, only... his arm is aching slightly from the awkward position it's been pulled into, and he can taste the faintest hint of the garlic bread he ate with his dinner. He is awake. "Later?" he whispers.

"I promise," Robbie replies softly. "Then, in a voice meant for other ears, he grumbles, "Jim, get your bloody elbow out of my ribs, will you?"

"Fuck off," James mutters sleepily.

"Go back to sleep," Robbie orders, and somehow, James does.

* * *

They're awakened at seven by three loud raps on the bedroom door. The clouds of the previous day are gone, and sunlight filters through the muslin curtains. "All right!" Robbie calls out.

James takes a moment to savour the warmth. The lightweight duvet is pulled over them, and Robbie is pressed against his back, right arm curled over James's waist. Reluctantly, he disentangles himself and stumbles out of bed. He hesitates only a second before pulling on his clothing from the night before. On the other side of the room, Robbie is doing the same. James keeps his eyes fixed on the buttons of his dress shirt. He wants to look at Robbie, but he needs the armour of his jacket and tie first. When he finally glances that way, it's to see that Robbie, fully dressed, is rounding the bed to stand in front of him.

"Good morning."

"Morning. Did you sleep okay?" James hopes that Robbie can read the real question in his eyes.

"Surprised I'm not black and blue all over, the way you kept jabbing me with your elbows," Robbie gripes, but his tone is affectionate, and his gaze is steady and full of promise.

When they emerge from the bedroom, Sowerby greets them with a brisk, "Good morning." There's no coffee on offer, much less breakfast. Sowerby escorts them to the BMW, but doesn't get in himself.

_Bugger. _Did they say something that made Sowerby suspicious? Or has he changed his mind about working with a couple of "fairies"?

Before James has time to think of other alarming possibilities, Sowerby leans in the open rear door. "Bob. Jim. Looking forward to working with you. I'll phone next week, yeah?" The door slams shut before either of them can reply.

* * *

And then they're back in the car park of Ristorante Fiorino, climbing into the Ford Focus that the taskforce provided for their use. James turns to Robbie. "Are you sure?" He trusts the whispered promise of last night, really he does, but at the moment what he needs is to understand.

"Very sure," Robbie replies. As usual, he's reading things in James's face that are invisible to everyone else. "Look, I think that once we start talking about... this...us, I reckon it's going to take a while. An' since the DTST are waiting to debrief us, the quicker we see them, the quicker we'll be free."

James nods. That's sensible. That's necessary. Duty comes first.

* * *

The debriefing is as long and tedious as James feared. Every detail has to be reviewed multiple times: first separately by two senior officers, and then by both together. Robbie is being questioned in another room by other officers. James wonders if this is how suspects in interview feel.

DCI Sanderson is sceptical about his claim to remember some of Sowerby's tales verbatim. James refrains from telling him that an anecdote about a prostitute on a motorbike is far easier to memorise than a passage from Augustine's _De Civitate Dei._

At last they're released, only to be summoned into the Chief Super's office. Innocent is extremely pleased. They've done a first rate job. "Sanderson tells me that some of your information will generate useful leads," she says, smiling.

"That's good, ma'am," James says. He glances at Robbie. _Did they tell_ you_ that? _he asks silently, and receives an infinitesimal head-shake in return.

After a few more remarks about inter-force cooperation, Innocent dismisses them. It's only half three, but she orders them out of the nick. "Don't come in tomorrow," she commands. As tomorrow is Friday, and they're off the rota for the weekend, they're happy to obey.

* * *

Within half an hour, they're seated on Robbie's sofa, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh, each holding a bottle of beer. They've been talking about all sorts of topics except for the one that matters most.. Finally, James decides, it's time. "When did you know?"

Robbie studies the face of his watch. "About you having... feelings for me? I think I've suspected for nearly a year, only I forced meself not to think about it, not to know it, for reasons that seemed to make sense at the time."

About a year. That would go back to the Murray Hawes case, and Robbie telling him that he ought to find 'someone'. He manages to keep his face neutral and his voice calm. "And when did you know about yourself?"

"Today. I suppose it had been growing inside me for a good long while, but I knew this morning, when I woke up."

"Which time?" James asks, remembering that terrifying moment in the wee hours before dawn.

"Both times. The first time, in the dark, was when I knew I wanted you." His mouth twitches. "If it hadn't been for the circumstances, I think I might've shagged you there and then."

James inhales sharply. "And the other time? What did you realise then?"

"When I woke in the daylight, with my arms around you... that's when I knew I loved you." His cheeks are tinged with pink.

It's a long moment before James can speak. "I'd like to hear more about that."

"I'm not much of a talker." Robbie shrugs. "Reckon I've said the important part already."

James smiles. "Then why don't you show me?"

"I suppose I can do that," Robbie replies. And he does.

The End


End file.
